


In Memoriam: February 1991

by Hope



Series: In Memoriam (SPN, pre-series) [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-06
Updated: 2007-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on <a href="http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/51619.html">hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com</a>. Part of the In Memoriam collection.</p>
    </blockquote>





	In Memoriam: February 1991

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com](http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/51619.html). Part of the In Memoriam collection.

*

They're far enough south that it's not snowing, but all that means is that the decomposing slush of leaves are still visible in the gutters instead of covered by a layer of white. Dean kicks his feet through them as he walks home, wriggles his toes as he feels his socks dampen. It's only February but he's sick of school already, pining for spring break, too far ahead. He's sick of the pavement, trudging the same route back and forth every day, and today not even Sammy there to distract Dean from the monotony at least a little with his constant commentary.

Dad says they're sticking around until at least spring break, though. He doesn't say anything about it, but Dean knows his knee must ache from the cold, not that long ago that it was hurt, still healing and not helped at all by the weather. It had been really bad; Dean still feels a little sick when he thinks about how Dad'd come back into the hotel room with his face all white, and how he'd gasped like sobbing when Dean'd put the ice on his knee. How the sound had woken Sammy up.

Dean jogs to the other side of the street. There're no cars around, too late for the after-school rush, but the road makes him nervous sometimes, like if he steps on it it might just drag him off without warning, like a river with its current too strong. Which is fine when the car's cruising them down it together, swift motion lulling to sleep or buoying anticipation.

He steps between a couple of run-down houses, taking a shortcut through the pedestrian alley and the vacant lot at the back -- burnt-out campfire rings like blackheads on its scruffy face -- until he gets to painted-brick block that holds their apartment.

The key's warm from being under his shirt, and he lets it drop back to hang on the twine looped around his neck once he's unlocked the door. Inside the apartment it smells sharp-sweet, like something’s caramelized, and he hears the hiss of cooking through the open doorway from the short hall to the kitchen.

Dean steps through, slings his bag off to rest against the wall. Dad's standing at the stove, broad shoulders and sleeves-rolled-up, feet planted a little wide and solid, elbow pumping as he shakes something over the hot plate. He glances back over his shoulder when Dean comes up to the bench dividing the cramped living area from the food-prep space.

"Hey."

"Hey," Dean says back, rests his arms on the bench, leans forward. The smell is stronger in here, and Dean recognizes it for what it is; almost-burning tomato sauce from a can of beans, or more likely -- spaghettios. Dad always has the heat on just a little too high.

Dad doesn't say anything else, doesn't even turn around again and Dean frowns, picks at the peeling edge of the formica benchtop. There's a more vicious hiss as Dad stirs the pasta over again.

"Sorry," Dean blurts, and Dad looks back over his shoulder again, expression unreadable. He twists the heat off, then turns and crouches, digging around in the cupboard under the bench before straightening, setting three mismatched bowls on the benchtop in front of Dean.

Dad's wearing earrings, clip-ons, asymmetrical dirty-purple blobs that look not unlike poop. Dean feels his eyebrows rise instantaneously. "What for?" Dad says, tone like he wants to hear why Dean thinks he should apologize rather than just guileless enquiry.

Dean shrugs, has to look away. "I should have picked Sammy up from school."

Dad turns back to the stove, lifting the saucepan with one hand, wooden spoon in the other. "Yeah," he says when he turns back again, starts tipping the pasta into the bowls with the aid of the spoon. "You should've. But the school called me, so I knew."

Dean swallows. He knows they called Dad, he'd _asked_ them to, and they might all be self-important assholes but at least they still recognized the importance of a kid needing someone to take him home from school. He wonders if they told Dad what the detention was for. They probably did. Dad doesn't ask.

"Get your brother, will you?"

Sammy's in their bedroom, humming tunelessly to himself, kneeling on the floor with his elbows on his bed, scraps of newspaper spread out all around him, glue brush in hand.

"Hey," Dean says, sitting on the corner not covered with bits of paper, bouncing a little and listening to the creak. "Whatcha making?"

"Dean!" Sammy says, intent expression replaced with one of delight. He holds his hands up, glue brush in one, paper in the other. Paper apparently glued to Sammy's hand. And another strip in his hair, inexplicably at the back of his neck. "A chain," he says, lifting it up a little higher so Dean can see the strips of newspaper glued into rings, linked to each other. Sammy grins when Dean takes it, carefully peeling from Sammy's fingers, examining. Sam scratches the back of his neck right where the paper is. Without putting down the glue brush.

Not so inexplicable, then.

"Did you make this all yourself?"

Sammy nods. "I learnt at school today!"

Dean smiles, hands it back. "Food's up," he says.

"Okay, just one more." Sammy's expression turns intent again, and Dean watches as he carefully threads another strip through the ends of the chain, linking them together, pressing so tight with his fingers that the flesh under the nail bleaches white.

Sam runs out ahead of him and Dean hears the familiar crow of "Spaghettios!" before he even gets there himself. Sammy's standing at the end of the rickety table, bouncing slightly in place, paper chain whispering a little with the movement as it jiggles in his hand. "Daddy!" Sammy says, drawing out the _eee_ sound, but with eagerness rather than complaint.

Dad walks around the bench and toward the table, sets the last bowl down. Sam reaches his arms up, chain held in an open loop with both hands, and Dad stands before him, leans down. Sammy springs up on unnecessary tiptoes, loops the chain over Dad's head like it's a medal. He catches sight of the earrings. "Dean, look!" he says, suddenly top-volume, always an indication he's bordering on over-excitement. "Look what else I made!"

Dad tilts his head a little to give Dean a better view, and Sammy's gluey finger pokes at the left earring repeatedly. Dad meets Dean's eyes, mouth quirked in an expression that makes Dean's stomach flip and tickle laughter up. "Wow," he says. "Sammy, you're quite the artist today."

"It's not art," Sam scoffs. Dad straightens, pulls the chair out for him, and Sammy climbs on, holding his arms up as Dad pushes it in again. "It's joolry."

"My mistake."

"Uhuh." Sammy's already stuffing spaghettios into his mouth. Dad sits at the head of the table, chain crunching against the edge a little as he leans forward to lift the spoon to his mouth.

The pasta is hot, tastes burnt-sweet like the smell of the apartment. Dean and Dad are finished before Sammy's done shoveling it in; hampered somewhat by the baby spoon he still insists on using, small and shallow and stump-forked on the other end, and Sammy still utterly shamelessly asks for it every time Dad attempts to neglect putting it out. Dean suspects it'll be a while before Sammy declares he's too old to sleep with his stuffed rabbit anymore, or that he no longer requires Dad to test the bathwater with his pinky before he'll go anywhere near it.

Dean reaches for the stray bit of newspaper brushing Sammy's collar, seeking with his fingers where it's attached to Sammy's hair and attempting to tug it out.

"Ow," Sammy says, almost absently, mouth full. "Don't hurt me."

"I'm not," Dean says, pulling away the piece of paper finally and smacking the back of Sammy's head lightly for good measure.

Dad's watching them. "Maybe you should make Dean a chain," he suggests, and Sammy says something unintelligible but clearly enthusiastic, shoveling faster, pushing away from the table before he's finished chewing and disappearing into the bedroom again.

Dad sighs. "Playing ball would wear him out faster," he says, almost wistfully, tone that of a co-conspirator.

Dean snorts, half in surprise. He looks up at Dad and the earrings makes his own smirk twist anew. "No yard," he says.

Dad grimaces faintly and stands again, stacking the bowls. Dean collects the glasses.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/51619.html


End file.
